


Watchful Eyes

by hutchabelle



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 06:10:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2218725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchabelle/pseuds/hutchabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen-year-old Peeta can’t take his eyes off Katniss, the girl he’s always loved. Canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watchful Eyes

I watch her every single day.

It sounds strange, and maybe it is, but I can’t help myself. She’s been in the forefront of my mind for the last ten years, and I’m guessing she’ll be in there for years to come.

I remember the first time I saw her. Her hair hung in thick braids, and she opened her mouth to sing such a sweet melody that I haven’t been able to think of anyone but her since then.

I know I’m young. I know I’m only fifteen. I know people would tell me there are plenty of other options, that I’ll find someone else, but I don’t want anyone else. Katniss is everything to me.

I hate the image that remains in my mind of her wet and helpless in the rain.

She collapsed against the tree behind the bakery and shivered without hope until I could throw the bread to her. It hurt when my mother hit me, but I’d take a million lumps if it meant that I could see her eyes light up with appreciation for the loaves she tucked under her shirt and carried home.

Not long after, I spotted her outside the school as she glanced at me. I was surrounded by my friends and about to walk away from them, maybe toward her if I could have mustered enough courage, but her gaze shifted downward too quickly for me to read her expression. She leaned down and picked something, but I’m still not sure what it was. It might have been a flower, but whatever it was it caused a soft smile to steal across her face before a stern look of determination washed her features with ferocity.

I know she changed after that. Not much, but the sheen of childhood faded just a bit from her that day. Her sister, Prim, named after the primrose, remained childlike and trusting but Katniss wasn’t ever quite as innocent again.

No, she hasn’t changed for the worse. Instead, she grew stronger, bolder, more sure of herself in a way that made me care about her even more. Her bravery made my knees weak when I thought about her; her skill as a hunter thrilled me more than anything; her relationship with Gale made my heart clutch when I thought about them together, and I longed for a life in which I could partner with her. I wasn’t the type to escape into the woods, but I wanted to be, if only to spend some time with her.

I watch her because I love her.

At least I think it’s love. Maybe I don’t really know. I’m young. I’ve never been attracted to anyone but her, so I can’t be sure about anything except that I long for her so intensely that I see her even when she’s not there.

The days she brings Prim by the bakery to look at the cakes in the window make me swell with pride because I know she’s seeing something that I created, something that I worked hard to make beautiful, and I hope they cheer her days a little bit. I wish I could give her more, but she’d be furious if I did.

She’s never thanked me for the bread, but I don’t hold that against her. Besides, I didn’t do it for thanks or to gain her gratitude. I threw her that bread because she needed it, and I had the means to help her. She’s too special for the Capitol to beat. She’s too important for the enemy to win. The enemy is unseen, but we all know who it is. The same enemy that allowed for Katniss to starve is the same one that forces me to eat stale bread every single day; that killed her father; that created a divide between the merchants in District 12 and those in the Seam so that neither of us can be comfortable enough to approach the other in public.

We’ve never spoken, never been in the same place by ourselves. We’re always surrounded by other people—customers at the bakery, other students and plenty of teachers at school, her sister when she’s walking home and I think maybe I could approach her. But I don’t. I leave her alone because I respect that she’s independent. And strong. And so amazing my heart hurts when I see her.

As much as I watch her, I end up knowing her very well. The curve of her neck under her dark braid, the way her hand grips a pencil, the callouses on her fingers from shooting her bow, the litheness of her body when she runs in gym class. All of them testify to her beauty and her calculated view of the world. Everything she does is deliberate. There are no wasted moves, which makes me happier every time I catch her eyes focused on me.

I’m not sure if it’s intentional or not, but my interest in wrestling increases when I hit puberty. I’ve passed out of my awkward phase and work on building muscle. My shoulders broaden and my arms have a definition that wasn’t there before. Gale isn’t the only one with muscles. Maybe Katniss will see me differently if I look more like a man. Working in the bakery helps. I lift sacks of flour every day and that helps work out the frustrations I have. Wrestling helps too. Knowing I can overpower my opponent helps me imagine a world in which the Capitol doesn’t win every time.

Nothing helps when nighttime comes, though. Visions of Katniss invade my dreams every night, and no amount of aggression during the day helps ease the desire I have for her and my body’s reaction to the images that play through my mind. I take matters into my own hands every night before I sleep, but I still wake every day to either a mess or a stiffness that makes it painful to move.

My cheeks flush when I think of her with me. Her olive skin against mine is a dream I can’t keep from flashing through my mind. I force myself to ignore that feeling in the pit of my stomach that tightens when I think of her with Gale because that makes me feel guilty when I imagine doing things that would bring a smile to her face. There are no words to describe how much I want to see her lips relax, her eyes close in ecstasy, and a blush of pleasure creep across her neck.

Other girls sneak kisses from me and my body reacts to them, but none of them excite me the way she does. Something about her gives me childlike hope that one day she’ll seek me out too. That one day she’ll appreciate that my shoulders have filled out, that I could take care of her too, that my blue eyes watch her with longing.

Someday I want her eyes to watch me too.


End file.
